Excerpt from the Book
Even if it sounds like I’m bragging, I’ll say
it: you have probably heard of me.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the
past year, you’ve heard my name: Bobby Barton.
Or, as I was called for most of last year,
President Bobby Barton. Most likely you have
some idea of what happened that made it so
everybody knew my name. But now that I
have a little more spare time, I will tell you
the story myself.
Many others have told my story already.
At the very start, the headlines on the front
page of every newspaper in the world were
about me. So many people wanted to tell my
story, but I can tell it best. After all, I was the
one who lived it.
Oh, yeah, one more thing. I learned a lot of
stuff last year. I underlined some words you
might not know, and explained them in the
glossary at the end.
So here goes. It all started on a sunny day
The long yellow school bus, packed with
my third grade class, rolled into Washington,
D.C. All of the windows on the bus
were open, and the breeze blowing across the
tops of our heads felt nice. Everybody was in
a great mood.
The school year had just begun a couple of
weeks before, and we were already going on
an awesome field trip. It was worth waking
up extra early to get a head start that day: we
were going to see the White House in person,
as well as the Washington Monument, the
Lincoln Memorial, and the National Archives.
The bus rolled to a stop. Mr. Glover, our
history teacher, announced, “Boys and girls,
please settle down. We have arrived at the
National Archives, where our country’s most
important documents are kept. The Declaration
of Independence, the United States Constitution,
and the Bill of Rights are inside this
building. These are the pages that gave birth
to our nation, and to this day they give freedom
to each and every one of us. Now please
follow me off the bus, and walk single file.”
As we headed for the big building with the
tall columns in front, my best friend Kevin Sawyer jabbed me with his elbow. “Pretty
cool, huh?” said Kevin. “I mean, we’re about
to see these things that were written hundreds
of years ago! I wonder if anything I’ve written will last that long.”
“Could be,” I replied. “Have you written
anything good lately?”
“Just that essay on how I spent my summer
vacation,” Kevin answered, staring at the
Archives Building, “But I guess that maybe
my story about getting a sunburn might not
be a big enough deal to build a place like this to keep it in. Oh, well.”
I smiled, and we kept walking.
The main room inside the Archives Building
was called the Rotunda for the Charters of
Freedom. It was a big, round room with marble
floors and concrete walls. Giant paintings
on the walls showed scenes from early America.
Display cases along the front of the room
held what we had come to see: the pages that
our Founding Fathers wrote.